Marine for Hire (8 page)

“Oh, wow,” she called. “I never would have thought of that.”

“Of what?” he asked, wiping his hands on his shorts as he hustled to catch up with her.

“The sunglasses cord on the teething ring. You made this?”

Sam shrugged. “It solved the problem.”

“You even figured out how to rig it up so he can’t choke himself on the cord. You’re a smarter mom than I am.”

She said it with a smile, but there was something sad in her eyes. She steered the stroller over some grass and onto a paved pathway, her expression oddly wistful.

“I don’t think I’d go that far,” he said, following her toward the exit. “I spent ten minutes this morning trying to wipe poop off Jeffrey, only to realize I was scrubbing a birthmark.”

She laughed. “It’s how I tell them apart sometimes. Is that bad to admit? That I can’t tell my own children apart? God, I’m sure
normal moms
—”

“Why do you always say that?”

She gave him a startled look. “What?”

“That crap about normal moms. What the hell is a
normal
mom?”

She studied him for a moment, then looked away, maneuvering the stroller over a bump in the paved path. “It always seems like all the other moms out there were implanted with some sort of mommy chip. Something that gives them instant skills at properly dressing their babies and soothing owies and singing lullabies and all of that. I’m just standing here hoping no one notices I put my kid’s diaper on backward.”

Sam shook his head. “You look like you’ve got it pretty dialed in to me.”

She looked up from the pathway and gave him a small smile. “I appreciate that. But from where I stand, you’ve got more of a mommy chip than I do.”

He felt a little twist of guilt knowing he’d handed the boys a snack of whole carrots this morning before remembering they didn’t have teeth. Then he’d stood there like an idiot while Jackson tried to stick the carrot in his ear.

Mommy chip indeed.

Sam cleared his throat. “Well, if there are normal moms and abnormal moms, and you’re the latter, I’ll take abnormal any day of the week.”

She blinked, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. “That is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

He grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to tuck a long curl behind her ear, or tell her he could think of a dozen nice things to say or do to her that might make her week.

“Come on, let’s get home for dinner,” Sam said, hoping like hell he’d be able to assemble something vaguely edible after spending an hour on the phone that morning while his sister coached him on cooking techniques. “I’m making something extra special to celebrate your first day.”

“You really are amazing,” she said, smiling as she pushed the stroller through the gate and out into the parking lot. “I can’t believe my brother found you.”

He fell into step beside her, trying not to feel like the biggest jerk on earth.

Chapter Nine

There were moments Sheri wasn’t sure whether she wanted to fuck Sam or
be
Sam.

That wasn’t entirely true. She pretty much always wanted to fuck him, which made for a lot of distracted meals and infant bath-times. But she also envied the hell out of him for his natural ease with everything from babies to briskets.

Okay, so the
tits
shirt had been a little weird, but maybe things were different in foreign countries where Sam had worked. She was hardly one to judge.

She sighed. The whole arrangement seemed so odd sometimes. Here she was on one end of the house changing out of her work clothes in the master bedroom, while Sam played with the boys in their bouncy seats and put the finishing touches on dinner. God, whatever it was smelled delicious. Something smoky, like ribs or barbecue or maybe kalua pork. The last time she’d tried to whip up something like that, she’d—

Hell. She’d never tried to whip up something like that. She frowned and peeled off her blouse, draping it over the back of the flowered chair beside her bed. She glanced down at her cell phone, annoyed to see Jonathan had called again. He’d left two messages this morning, both demanding to sit down and talk face-to-face about reconciliation.

She’d promptly deleted them.

“Hey, Sheri?” Sam yelled from the kitchen. Sheri froze, topless and exposed and—well, yeah, a little excited at the prospect of having any sort of connection with Sam when she wasn’t fully dressed. She considered not responding, just for the thrill of hearing him shout her name again.

“Yes?” she called back, toeing off her kitten-heeled sandals with the dainty straps that had been cutting into her feet all day.

“Take your time getting dressed, okay?” he called. “Like if you want to take a bath or something. Or even a short nap. Or how about I bring you a glass of wine to enjoy while I finish dinner?”

She rolled her eyes, wondering if he wasn’t taking this domestic thing a little too seriously. Maybe she should talk with him about that, she mused as she unzipped her skirt. Or maybe Mac had ordered him to wait on her hand and foot. A girl could get used to that. After so many years with a man whose idea of foreplay was asking her to hold his feet while he did ab crunches, having a generous, competent, domestically inclined man around the house was an incredible treat.

She slipped off her skirt and folded it, draping it over the chair with her blouse. She knew she should hang them both up or set them aside for dry cleaning, but her closet space was abysmal and she didn’t have the energy to hunt down hangers and figure out the proper place for everything. That was something she’d need to address soon, along with all the other maintenance issues on the house.

She turned and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and quickly sucked in her stomach. She didn’t look too bad for a woman who’d given birth seven months ago, but this sure as hell wasn’t the body she used to have. Would Sam mind? What if she’d tried to seduce him last night and he laughed or said he wasn’t interested or—

“Sheri?” he called again, his voice sounding closer than the kitchen this time. “Just stay put and I’ll bring the wine to you, okay?”

Crap, had she remembered to lock the door? She grabbed her robe off the hook by the dresser and tugged it on, her arm tangling in the purple satin. She cinched the belt around her waist and cracked open the door.

Sam stood in the hallway with a sheepish look and a glass of white wine gripped in his big hand. “Here you go. Chardonnay. From the Willamette Valley in Oregon.”

She opened the door a little wider, but didn’t reach for the glass. “Thank you, Sam, but I can come out to the kitchen myself and—”

“No! I mean, just hang out in here.” He thrust the glass at her, and she had no choice but to take it.

“Thank you,” she said, shivering a little at the sight of his powerful, well-muscled form blocking her doorway. “The boys are still doing okay?”

“They’re great! Everything’s under control. Just take your time and enjoy the wine. Relax a little in your room.”

“Sure, fine,” she said, taking a sip of wine to show him she was paying attention.

“Dinner’s—um, not quite ready. I’ll come get you when it is, okay?”

“Okay, okay. You’re the boss.” She felt her cheeks redden. “I mean my brother’s the boss. Not me. I’m not technically your employer, in case there was any question of—”

“Your brother. Got it.” He nodded once, and she took a big gulp of wine. “I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready,” he said again.

“Okay. Thank you for the wine.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and gave her something that looked like an aborted salute.

She waved back and closed the door, setting the wine on top of the dresser.

Well, that was weird.

She glanced back at the door, wondering what he would have done if she’d grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled him into the room. It was a small room, just a few steps to the bed where she could push him back onto the flowered coverlet and—

Sheri frowned at her bed. “Hey, Sam?” she yelled, wondering if he could hear her if he was back in the kitchen again.

“Yeah?” he called back, the bang of the oven door punctuating his sentence.

“Did you make my bed?”

There was a short silence. “Yeah. Did I do it wrong?”

She trailed a finger over her quilt, pretty sure she hadn’t seen such a tightly made bed since the morning her father donned his general’s uniform, rounded up the Patton children, and barked a lesson on the proper way to make a bed to military standards. Hospital corners at precise forty-five-degree angles, sheets so crisp they looked like they’d been ironed, the flowers on the coverlet perfectly aligned with the ones on the pillowcases.

Christ, how long had that taken him?

“You could seriously bounce a quarter off this bed,” she yelled. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She pressed her palm into the mattress, thinking a quarter wasn’t what she most wanted to bounce there. The thought of Sam’s big hands smoothing her sheets and squeezing her pillows into submission made her shiver. She loosened the tie on her robe and slid a hand inside, absently stroking her palm up the curve of her rib cage. Her hands were half the size of his, but she trailed her fingers across her breast anyway. She cupped it softly at first, then with a firmer touch.

God, what would it be like to have his hand there instead, stroking the heated flesh, testing the weight of it in his big, work-roughened hands? She circled one finger around her nipple, gasping as a slow flicker of pleasure swelled up from her belly. She shrugged off the robe, letting it fall in a warm, satin puddle at her feet.

She kicked the robe aside, standing there in her bra and panties under the soft flutter of her ceiling fan. Her bedroom window was open just a little, and Sheri breathed in the scent of ocean air and fresh-cut grass as she drew another finger over her breast, thrilled at the way her nipple tightened in response.

She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she should lock the door. What if he came back and discovered her touching herself like this?

Good,
she thought.
Let him watch.

Let him
help
.

That was crazy thinking, and she knew she didn’t mean it. She couldn’t
really
have him. But maybe she could pretend.

Her heart was thudding hard now, and she pressed her whole palm over her nipple, squeezing and circling and making herself dizzy with pleasure.

Smiling to herself, she imagined Sam’s hands roaming over her like this, claiming her. She leaned back against the dresser and caught the wineglass with her free hand, lifting it to her lips. The liquid was cool with a citrusy tang, and she let it slide down her throat as she imagined Sam’s hands traveling her heated flesh, exploring every curve. She set the glass back down and moved her palm over her abdomen, making a few lazy circles there before slipping beneath the waistband of her panties.

It wasn’t hard to picture Sam touching her like that, pushing the warm satin down over her hips. She peeled off her panties and toed them aside, her breath coming faster as one finger slid lower, grazing her most sensitive spot once, twice. She let her fingertip linger right there.

Gasping, she began making slow, delicate circles as she leaned back against the hard wood of the dresser. Her elbow bumped the wineglass, but it didn’t spill. She wasn’t sure she’d care if it did, as she moved her legs apart and used her finger to spread herself open.

Her breath caught again as the cool whisper of the ceiling fan fluttered over her flesh, between her legs. She dipped her finger inside herself, imagining Sam’s hand pressing against her, testing her wetness.

God, she wanted him.

Her nipples were tight and achy against the thin cups of her bra, and Sheri leaned hard on the dresser, letting it hold her weight. She pictured Sam moving down between her legs, his stubbled cheek brushing the inside of her thighs as he dropped to his knees on the carpet, parting her legs with his chin. His breath was warm on her flesh, his tongue probing softly between—

“Sheri?”

She froze. His voice was distant, probably still in the kitchen, but her pulse kicked up anyway.

“Yes?” she called back, her voice high and tight. She should probably lock the door, but she didn’t want to move her hand and—

“Where’s the fire extinguisher?” he called.

“Fire extinguisher?” She blinked, trying to make sense of the words.

“I’m just doing a safety check,” he called. “Wanted to make sure you have the necessary equipment required by building regulations and fire laws and the covenants, codes, and restrictions of the neighborhood association.”

Safety first,
she thought, and reached over with her free hand to flip the door lock. “It’s under the kitchen sink,” she called. “I think.”

There was another pause, followed by something crashing.

“Got it,” he called. “Just relax, enjoy your wine, all right? I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready. It might be a few more minutes. Just stay there, okay?”

A few more minutes.
Okay. She could make the most of those minutes.

She moved her fingers, dipping in and out, then circling again to bring herself back to that frenzied pitch. She closed her eyes, imagining Sam’s hands on her again, his fingers clutching her thighs. She arched against him, twining her fingers in his hair as she drew him closer, urging him on.

“Yes!” she gasped. “
Sam.”

“Yeah?” he yelled from the end of the house.

Shit.

“Nothing!” she trilled, panting harder now, praying like hell he didn’t come down here.

Come. Down. Here. Right here.

Oh, God!

Everything exploded behind her eyes as wave after wave of pleasure crashed into her, knocking her back against the dresser. She gasped and writhed, bumping the wineglass with her elbow again as she plunged her finger deeper, feeling his tongue moving into her, his hands on her thighs, his breath hot on her damp flesh.

When her pulse finally slowed and the electric jolts subsided, she held her breath and listened. Had she gasped those last words aloud?

I can tell him I was watching YouTube videos before dinner
, she thought.

She peeled herself off the dresser and stood shakily in the center of the room, getting her bearings. She dressed quickly, pulling on a soft yellow T-shirt and a turquoise cotton skirt. She spotted her panties on the floor, but ignored them, stepping around her robe as she moved to the bathroom.

She splashed cool water over her face, feeling flushed and decadent and a little bit naughty. Washing her hands with gardenia soap, she studied her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look too disheveled. Maybe a little flushed, and her hair was a mess of tangled curls. She ran her fingers through it, not bothering with a comb. Her cheeks were pink and glowy, and her eyes had a definite sparkle. She rubbed her lips together, then brushed on a hint of pink gloss as an afterthought.

She stepped out of the bathroom, not bothering with shoes. Unlocking the bedroom door, she hesitated, shivering at the feeling of cool air between her legs.

Maybe she should go back for her panties.

“To hell with it,” she said, and stepped into the hall. Kelli had ordered her to get her mojo back. Maybe going pantyless to dinner after the best orgasm she’d had in a long time was the first step.

She reached back and grabbed the wine off the dresser, taking a small sip before padding down the tiled hall toward the front of the house. She rounded the corner, breathing in the fragrance of smoky meat. Sam must be barbecuing, or maybe he really was making kalua pork. Of course, where would he find time to dig a pit in the backyard and roast a whole pig? The idea was absurd, but then this was Sam. Those arms looked like he dug trenches in his sleep.

She passed through the dining room, the smell of smoke stronger there. She sneezed once, shielding her wine with her forearm. Where the hell was Sam?

She turned the corner to the kitchen, then froze.

“Sam?”

He stood at the rear door, his back to her as he murmured to someone outside. He whirled at the sound of her voice, a guilty expression on his face and two large white bags in his hand.